


Style

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: After Elrond’s healed Frodo’s wound, Lindir attends to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set in The Fellowship of the Ring, book 2 chapter 1, wherein Elrond just removed the black rider’s shard from Frodo’s shoulder. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s a few minutes behind schedule due to the commotion—several of the new halflings are more difficult than Bilbo ever was, and Estel seems to enjoy tormenting him with dirtied gear and a penchant for putting off a bath. If Lindir were Estel’s personal assistant, he’d find a way to lock Estel in his quarters each morning until the proper routines were done—bathing, dressing, braiding and all—but Estel will abide no such assistance, and Lindir already belongs elsewhere.

He knocks on his lord’s chambers, listens for the familiar, “Come in,” and lets himself inside. He shuts the door again with one hand, the other holding freshly washed towels for tomorrow morning. With a fond smile at the bed where Elrond sits, Lindir brings those towels to the side table next to the washroom door. Then he moves to the wardrobe to extract tomorrow’s robes, which he lays out across the chair of Elrond’s desk. A hairbrush sits atop the armoire, and Lindir fetches it before finally walking to his lord.

Elrond moves to sit in the middle of the bed and sweep his long hair back over his broad shoulders. He’s already changed into his night robes, pale gold washed yellow-blue in the starlight from the balcony. Lindir settles in behind him and begins to unfasten the braids entwined on either side, to which Elrond visibly relaxes, letting out a contented sigh. It makes Lindir’s heart sing to the point that he falters, wanting only to bask in Elrond’s presence, but he quickly shakes himself back to life and returns to dutifully finger-combing lose the braids. 

As he sets the curtain straight again and lifts the brush to it, Lindir asks, “How does the halfling’s wound fare, my lord?”

“Better than could be expected,” Elrond answers, which pleases Lindir more for Elrond’s relief than the patient’s. He likes the little folk well enough, but in truth, he would pay them no attention at all if not for his lord’s wishes. Elrond has been slaving over this one for days, and Lindir’s prayed that he would succeed—he deserves his peace and rest. He continues, “I finally managed to remove the shard, but it was buried deep. Though I have known Bilbo for some time now and heard more than my fair share of Mithrandir’s opinions of hobbits, I find myself still surprised at Frodo’s strength. Even one of our own might have succumbed to it sooner.”

“Not if they returned to you, my lord,” Lindir confidently replies, his eyes fixed on the steady sweep of the brush. He holds Elrond’s dark hair in one hand and runs down it with the other, marveling at the softness. This has always been one of his favourite duties—even with their talk of terrible things, the act is soothing, even intimate. Lindir dares to run his fingers through the ends and coos, “The halfling was truly lucky to come before you; no other could have saved him. You are a blessing to us.”

“And you are entirely too fond of me,” Elrond chuckles, his voice deep and pleasantly amused. Lindir grins at the sound. He doesn’t disagree aloud, because he knows from experience how Elrond will counter him, but privately, he knows the truth: his lord is the greatest treasure in all of Middle Earth, no matter what the halflings or Mithrandir or even Elrond’s council might think. 

Lindir sighs in an almost sing-song voice, “I am sure the halflings are most grateful, though it is a shame they do not seem to know what honour they hold by simply being welcome in your home.”

“I know you mean to compliment me,” Elrond muses, “but I hope you do not discredit them in the process. I would hope you think higher of them for your experience—I did see you speaking with Bilbo only this morning.”

Lindir can’t help a smile and a small laugh at the memory. “He does like to tease me so, my lord, but I fully admit that I understand him no more than I did on our first meeting. The mortal lot can be quite... confusing.”

Elrond shifts, and Lindir stills the brush, not wanting to risk tugging Elrond’s hair. Elrond turns to glance over his shoulder, and his grey eyes stall Lindir’s heart entirely. All his lord has to do is look at him, and he simply melts away.

Elrond turns enough to lay his hand over Lindir’s, and he tells Lindir softly, “I am proud of you, my songbird. You do more than simply tolerate our guest—I have seen the way you smile at his songs, and even heard you hum them on occasion. When you do, they have never sounded lovelier. Yet I remember when you first met him all those years ago, and it was all I could do to ease the look of horror on your face.”

Blushing vividly at the memory, Lindir ducks his head and admits, “To tell the truth, my lord, I was more worried when his Dwarven companion returned...” Sucking in a breath and lifting his head again, Lindir promises, “But so long as they do not bring a dozen wild ones at a time to sully your prized fountains, I think I should manage.”

Elrond’s affectionate smile grows, and it warms Lindir to his core. Elrond murmurs, “Nonetheless, I am proud of your growth,” and Lindir wants to sing. He’s reached the point where his mouth almost hurts from joy, and he finds himself clenching the brush too hard. He knows their session has ended, but as always, he wishes he could stay all night, quietly attending to his beloved lord during pleasant conversation.

Yet part of being a good attendant is allowing his lord rest, and he asks only, “Do you have need of anything else before you sleep?”

“Only good company,” Elrond returns, before leaning forward to press his lips chastely to Lindir’s cheek. Lindir shivers at the contact, delight permeating every part of him. Pulling back again, Elrond tucks a stray lock of hair behind Lindir’s ear and murmurs, “There are too many poisons in this world, but daggers and foul creatures are not the only power, and I would lie with someone pure while I may.”

Only because it’s late and Lindir’s clearly been invited, he mumbles sheepishly, “You would not think me so pure if you knew the thoughts I had of you, my lord.”

To which Elrond laughs and gives him another kiss, this time on his lips. It lingers a fair while, and when it ends, Lindir rises to go blow out Elrond’s candles. Then he strips to his own inner robes and returns to the bed where his lord and lover’s waiting.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Style](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183034) by [KeeperofSeeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/pseuds/KeeperofSeeds)




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